3 Percent Margin of Error
by snappleducated
Summary: "When you were young, did you think you'd be stuck with someone as terrible as me?" [Reyes/Ryder]


**ENTITLED:** 3% Margin of Error  
 **FANDOM:** Mass Effect Andromeda  
 **LENGTH** : 3k.5  
 **SETTING** : Basically the Kadara arc. I didn't follow original dialogue because THAT'S BORING.  
 **NOTES** : Guess who hasn't written fanfiction in over a year! Glad to know my coping mechanisms are still there for me.

* * *

He'd heard the new Pathfinder was young. But this seemed excessive, ridiculous. She had the same loping, lanky body found on a teenager. She couldn't have been older than her mid-twenties. He must have been a decade older. Why was he thinking that?

Reyes was good at reading people, and better at picking up on the things others wouldn't consider. People liked to talk about "the look of the killer" (had she killed before?) or a "battle-weary stare," which was bullshit. This was Kadara. Either you'd seen a fight or you never left your squat.

He was good at working out who was vulnerable, who needed to be complimented, who was a bully. He had to know these things. People were simple, they had their vanities and their secrets. The Angara were surprisingly harder—so open, so emotional. They didn't hide things. Keema, then, became essential.

But: the Pathfinder. Did her youth make her naïve? Incompetent? She had inherited the position from her father, a decision that couldn't have been made without sentiment. Alec Ryder was a legend, true, but legends were frequently failed by their children. It wouldn't have surprised Reyes to learn that the Nexus had appointed her as a figurehead, a distractor to cloak their scrambles. People were desperate for hope.

The Pathfinder liked whiskey. She drank it funny, held it in her cheek. He could almost hear her pushing the stuff through her teeth. She was eyeing the room's Angara, her expression tranquil. Too casual? He couldn't tell. She was direct. She moved a lot, shifting her weight like that—meaning what? Restless? Impatient? _Driven_.

Reyes held his breath. He was projecting. He wanted her to be something.

She hadn't noticed him yet. He felt old.

More people should have noticed her. She was pretty—but everyone was pretty in their early twenties, that wasn't anything special. Physical beauty began mattering less once humanity merged with aliens and lost a common point of comparison. The bar's patrons had looked at her when she came in—but she had a funny kind of emptiness, a shield of regularity. He could recognize this ability, because it was one he also possessed. Her fame made it more impressive.

She spoke, "So. You like bartending?" Even her goddamn voice was young, sort of flippy. Casual. Like someone who always sounded as though they were about to laugh, but never did. What the hell was wrong with him?

"I hate it. It pays," replied the Asari bartender, continuing her streak of bitter, half-haikus.

"I like it." The Pathfinder leaned more heavily against the counter. "You're like alcohol. So painful, so good. I can see why this place is popular."

"Ugh," said the bartender, but she poured the Pathfinder another drink. "Drink this and die."

"Well, don't get me too excited," said the Pathfinder. As the Asari moved away, and the girl looked down into her glass, something happened. Her body shrank, now slumping. Reyes watched her chest rise, and expel, so slowly. She rubbed one of her eyes, too hard. And she drank like an old soldier.

Now.

He approached her, spoke to her, revealed himself (sort of). He watched her eyes, how they flickered and widened. She could be coy, and was surprisingly good at it—past relationships? He could see why. He wondered if she flirted with everyone. He watched her smile, those perfect teeth the military had paid for, and wondered why he couldn't nail down _anything_ for sure. Why was she so good at revealing nothing? Was it the rumored machine in her head, the AI that could scan him and code him and predict—with an accuracy containing a 3% margin of error—the likelihood of his next move?

No way. No way could she hear all that, and still be able to function. Maybe she could turn the bot off.

"You're awfully handsome for a convenient informant," the Pathfinder grinned. "Does anyone ever tell you to tone down the suspicious?"

"You're pretty young for a Pathfinder. Does anyone ever tell you to grow up?" he didn't say.

The Pathfinder was eyeing his glass. He'd ordered the second best whisky the bar had, hoping to learn something about her by doing so. Would she refuse to pay, or politely endure? "My dad used to drink that," she said, suddenly. "I used to steal it when I was a teenager. I don't think he really noticed for a while but when he did, he sat me down and blindfolded me. I half-thought I was going to be shot, but instead he had me do a taste test. Platinum brand versus bottom shelf. My brother got it right away, he was all 'I see what you mean about the barrels, you can really taste the way the wood interacts with the sugar.' But I didn't have a clue. Worse, I couldn't tell the difference between whiskey and bourbon." She paused. She stopped. She wanted to say more, he could see it on her, but she stopped. She shrugged. Her smile was painful, fake. "I guess the good things are wasted on me."

She felt inferior to her brother, sensing a bond between father and son she'd never been a part of. Her brother was in a coma, Reyes knew. The Pathfinder suspected that her father would have preferred Scott inherit his title. In spite of this, painfully, she loved them. She missed them.

Unexpectedly, she was vulnerable. Her genuine confidence had mislead him from the obvious. She was alone.

"Welcome to Kadara," Reyes said. "There are only bad things here."

* * *

But that wasn't true, because _she_ was good. All he had to do was point her towards calamity, and off she ran—the most effective, most destructive hunting dog he could have asked for. That first time he'd sent her off into the wastelands, a large part of him had wondered if he'd killed her. A bigger part thought she'd make it.

But he wasn't a gambling man, and he didn't like believing in things.

"I thought you said this job was a hard one," Ryder said. Dead bodies, everywhere. He didn't think of her by her title anymore, not now that she was building the habit of doing him favors. Her cheek was bruised, because of him.

"I said that because I wanted you to bring back-up," Reyes replied, honestly.

"Too slow. I need another homestead." She paused. "As you may know, people are counting on me. _So_ many people! You'd think the other Pathfinders could help me pull some weight around here."

"And I am among the dependent," Reyes said. His gut twisted. "Maybe you shouldn't be so good at your job."

"You're right. I should get fired." She squatted down, digging a pebble out of her leg plate's grooves. He just stood there, frustrated, watching her. He should kiss her. She should want him.

Ryder sniffed. She winced when she rubbed away the dust on her face, skimming the bruise. "Why don't you?" he asked, "Why don't you just leave?"

"Who knows?" she laughed. "I guess I started thinking I had to save people. What happens if I leave? I mean—maybe everyone dies. Or maybe it's fine. What's worse?" She sniffed again, that low-level kind of sick you get from constant stress. He knew it well.

Moving on. "Have you tangled with Sloane yet? She can't be happy you're here fixing the things she couldn't." As though he hadn't heard, word for word, their nasty exchange. Was Ryder as soft as she looked? So tempting to damage?

Ryder glanced up at him. He hadn't thought she'd look so wary—no, wry?—no—?

"So I guess you're not big on Sloane?" she asked. He didn't reply. Poker face, poker face, half smile, toes pointing to her, interested, keep talking—

"Well," Ryder mumbled. "I mean. Hell, if she's still alive I'm guessing her reflexes are killer. To be honest with you, I don't think she knows her own people. Or her enemies. Or anyone."

"It's easier to seize power than to keep it," Reyes murmured. Ryder smiled.

"You sound experienced."

"That's another way of saying old." Reyes joked. He couldn't see her face. The sun backlit her, throwing her into shadow, hiding everything. She knew. She couldn't know. He'd gotten too close to her, exposed too much in the process of winding down her own defenses, he was wide open, she was—

"I don't think you're old," Ryder said, and suddenly, as though it were wrenched from her, she blushed. He stared. She was—

" _Don't_ tease me," she growled, and stomped off.

—young. She was young.

* * *

"I've told the Pathfinder how much you like her," Keema drawled. Keema was more human than Angaran, a cultural chameleon, a born liar. Everybody liked Keema. Reyes glanced up at his partner, his face. They'd been discussing a forced siege of the north Krogan mine—one way to get prices down.

Keema was smiling, catty. She could be furious. Reyes looked back down at the papers he didn't need. "Such a gossip."

"You're an idiot," Keema said, voice tight. She wasn't teasing him. "Don't fuck this up."

Reyes surrendered his papers, his paper-thin nonchalance. "I'm not fucking up anything," he said evenly. "What's got you so rattled?"

"Because it isn't a lie," Keema said. She was staring at him, daring a contradiction. "You're smart, and you're selfish, but you aren't unfeeling. I've never minded that about you. The Angara don't have—what do you call them— _sociopaths_. Not like humans do. I wouldn't be able to work with you, if you were one. I've noticed that humans like to give labels to things, to separate themselves from it. Sociopath, murderer, monster. But that is ridiculous. There is an ugliness in each of you, just as there is beauty."

"Why are you telling me this?" Reyes asked, voice flat. He tried not to be threatening. Keema would never tolerate it, he would lose her respect almost immediately.

"Because the Pathfinder is a _hero_ , and she is the daughter of a martyr. When she bleeds, her pain is not lonely. Right now she is the most important human in our universe. If things go badly because of you, we will be destroyed."

"They don't _know_ us, Keema," Reyes pressed back. A small voice just behind him whispered concern: what was he doing? As though he actually wanted to _hurt_ The Pathfinder—Ryder—that girl. That girl. "That's our power, the power of the Charlatan. We are anyone."

"We are _Kadara_ ," Keema retorted coldly. "Could the Nexus destroy their outcasts? Maybe, maybe not. But I don't want a war, Reyes. I'm actually very simple. I want money. I want power. I want to own this land, and I want a cut out of every deal that happens on this beautiful, vicious place. What is it you want?"

His fists were tight. He made them open. He stood from the table, stretching the muscles of his back. They snapped, popped. He and Keema always met publicly. They were only common citizens, out enjoying a drink. Kadara had more bars than cafés but the patios, if you could find them, were something special. Especially on the windy days, with the sulfur smells diluted.

Keema was right. She had the distance, the perspective. Reyes exhaled.

"No one wants to fight the Pathfinder," he agreed. "She's proven herself to be a considerable force. Behind the name, she has ability to make real progress with settling Kadara—not to mention the other outposts. More outposts means more trade, more customers, more exchange. And Kadara is at the heart of that. If the Pathfinder succeeds, we can only profit."

"Don't forget that she's all that stands between us and the Kett," Keema snorted. Reyes stared at her. Keema smirked, "You now, I think I might like her better than you."

"She doesn't have to get involved with the Charlatan," Reyes stressed. "Or Sloane. She doesn't need to know. She just needs a settlement."

"I agree to some extent," Keema rose to join him at the railing, now sipping her choice Angaran drink. "Most people seem to prefer you without the lies and murder. But be careful, Reyes. She's not stupid, and neither is the computer in her head. No matter how much she might want to believe you, it's in her nature to be honest. She won't lie to herself for long. Get close to her, but not too close."

"You don't need to tell me that."

"Don't I?" Keema glared at him. "You aren't seducing her. You're restrained. That's new."

Reyes looked away.

* * *

The hope of humanity kissed like her job was not establishing sustainable life for mankind and associates. She kissed as though her primary occupation was tricking scheming murderers into humanitarianism.

And she was convincing.

She broke away from him, to glance over her shoulder. "I think they left," she whispered, and then punched his shoulder. She could hit pretty hard. "I can't _believe_ you're stealing in front of me."

"What I do, I do for you," Reyes protested, reeling. Ryder glanced back, narrowing her eyes.

"If that were true, you'd owe me less money."

"I thought we put these things behind us," Reyes brushed past her, just happening to find her waist, just happening to pull her along. The Pathfinder had a way of stealing his momentum. "Won't you join me?"

"I guess this is the real date," she almost purred. He smiled. Little cat.

He led her upwards, as high as the buildings in Kadara would go, which helped with the smog and the fumes. The sunset was spectacular—a poisoned atmosphere would do that. Ryder sat next to him, swinging her legs through the open air. She said, "I'm not sure I believe that you stole this for me, the way you're holding that bottle."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It's indecent." She made a show of averting her eyes. She _liked_ him—but how much? When was it not enough, and when did she come too close? "Anyway, I told you. Anything in a bottle costing more than twenty credits is wasted on me."

"Nothing is wasted on you. Nothing is too good." Reyes said sharply, so intense that she flinched, and looked away. Lies could be honey, but kindness turned violent. Reyes pulled back. "Go ahead," he said, more gently. "Drink."

She drank, repeating the same funny gesture as before. Holding things in her cheeks, straining through teeth. She swallowed, and looked at him. For approval? The liquor had made her eyes burn, they shone in the twilight. So close to him. "What do you taste?" he whispered.

"The same as always. It's awful and it burns going down. It's hot in my mouth." She looked at the bottle, sniffing. "500 years old and I still can't get it."

"No," he reached for the bottle. His hand felt hers, but didn't hold it. He drank. "It's a full throated taste. The sugar has almost rotted, it clings to your teeth. I think someone added cloves, at some point."

"Well, well," she murmured. She pulled her knees up against her chest, now looking even younger. He wondered if she got cold easily, or if she was just running away from him. "I should have known you had a discerning palette."

"You have no idea." He handed back the bottle. Her fingers were frozen, now that he noticed. He kissed her. What he really wanted was for her to kiss him. Her skin was as hot as a baby's, an oven. Her life boiled inside her. He wanted all of her heat.

"Would you like to know what's special about you?" he told her. Seduce her, Keema had said. "For you, it only tastes like poison. But you keep drinking anyway."

500-year-old whiskey, aging slowly as Reyes and Ryder slept their way through space. Some lonely soul, alive only to keep things from going to shit—chose whether to brew with wheat, or corn, or rye. Like a gift from the past, set aside for someone else.

And now, his.

"I knew you liked me," the girl said, bright-eyed. She touched his face. Her hands weren't cold anymore.

"Did Keema tell you?"

"I knew before that."

"I was obvious."

"No, you wanted me to know." She looked straight at him, something serious and unknown lurking in her tone. Something analytical. Not human.

"Do you know what I like the most?"

"What?"

"You like me back."

His relief, when she smiled.

(His desire: pathetic and childish and hateful, to ask, "Would you still want me, if I wasn't the person you thought I was?" Infantile and embarrassing. He refused to ask. He deserved her hatred. He deserved it.)

* * *

His girl, watching Sloane die. Her expression had shutters. She could ruin him. "You lied to me," she accused, with resignation. She couldn't leave him now. "You're the Charlatan," she concluded. She knew. She knew. She had seen the things he did, or ordered. All the things he'd warned her of, coming true in an instant. Uglier than expected.

"Nothing has to change," he tried not to beg. He had never thought he'd beg. She watched him, hand on her gun. He stepped nearer. It didn't matter if she shot him. Without her, it was over. All cards on the table, all bets riding on the heart he couldn't read.

She looked young, and crumpled, and bruised. Because of him.

"I'm sorry," he said. His heart, slamming on his ribs, trying to escape.

"You lied to me," she said again, "About everything. I trusted you. Actually—you knew how I felt. You used me."

"I thought that if you knew, you would feel differently about me," Reyes begged. "I was afraid. You could have destroyed me. You still can."

"I won't destroy you, Reyes," she said quietly. He felt no relief. Sometimes, he had dreamed about hurting her—dreams that he woke from feeling sick, disturbed. He had hurt a lot of people. It could become satisfying.

" _Nothing_ has to change," he said again. He took her hands—icy. "We'll remake Kadara, together. Your outpost will have my complete support—and you'll have a center for trade. You know I can manage that. You know I can help you."

"I know," she answered, after a brief pause. Had she run the statistics? Did she see the things they could achieve? She drew into herself, then faced him. "You're right. We could do a lot together."

"There are things you shouldn't have to do," Reyes said quietly, with meaning. "Not in your position. But I can. I can help you in ways that nobody else could. You know it's true. You can trust me. There's nothing left to hide."

She drew back still further. "I don't believe you."

"Then leave me, and do it now." Reyes said. "If something's over, you should end it. I'm not a good man, Ryder. I won't give up on you, and I won't change. You'll have to deal with me eventually."

She bit her lip, shaking her head, until eventually, she snorted. His grip on her hands tightened. He'd pushed too hard. "You're such a manipulative shit," she mumbled, then added in a clearer voice. "My AI wants you dead."

He'd won.

"Do you agree?"

"No," she faced him, her face blazing. "Even now, I want to believe. If not in _you_ , then in your ability. Your desire to see things improve. I was doing great things before I met you, and I did those things _myself_. You should see that."

"I want you to believe in me too," Reyes said, meaning it.

"I do. But I also know better." She sighed, now staring at Sloane's corpse. The body was still bleeding. He waited for her to say something. She didn't. He had made her older.

"When you were young, did you think you'd be stuck with someone as terrible as me?" he asked, tone light. Her hands were warming, the longer he held them. Did he want to drag her down, or have her pull him up? He thought, suddenly, of a game he'd played when he was very small—when he and a friend had joined hands, and leaned as far backwards as their arms would stretch. Only the other person's support kept them from falling.

Ryder's lips twitched. She was still looking at Sloane. "I wanted someone handsome and kind and rich, but mostly, I hoped I'd meet someone exciting."

"I can be exciting."

"You're _too_ exciting," she snorted. He had won, he had won.

"You have no idea." He pulled her to him. "Believe in me."

"Absolutely not." She'd forgotten Sloane. Her heart was young and alive. She had too many things to do.

"You will." He promised her mouth, her frozen hands. "You will."


End file.
